


remains

by diovis (dafen)



Series: omnivore [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 99 percent angst, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, So much angst, Spoilers, during relationship, it's a one time thing which may or may not be common, sorta - Freeform, very mild
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7725973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dafen/pseuds/diovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Solas wakes and cannot breathe, and two times Lavellan reminds him how to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	remains

**Author's Note:**

> The Felassan stuff is from the wiki's info on The Masked Empire, and what Cole says during Halamshiral. Throw Me A Bone on characterization here I was sweatin by the end of the last sentence.

On one night he wakes, gasping and jerks upright, a sob caught in his throat as he fists fingers in the fabric of his couch to scramble in barely-lit darkness. He remembers—

Mythal. Bloody, broken, bruised, pervaded, a great soul split upon the hallowed grounds of her own temple by those she would call kin. Blood, there is blood pooling around her body and the broken limbs of her followers are scattered around her.

Eyes wide. Stinging. He is a wolf, sprinting across crystal streets and through great forests with death on his pelt. A trail, behind him, Falon’din’s grip and Andruil’s arrows embedded within those who sought his guidance. Those who sought freedom.

 _Fucking selfish_ wolf, he is, taking command of so many and bringing false hope in the wake of _Elgar’nan’s wrath_ , Mythal’s grave in his hands and Mythal's blood on his teeth.

He was weak this night, fade-walking between the world of mortal dreams and the expanse of ancient magic. Foolish _fucking_ wolf, he is, he fails to grip the world across the Veil and slipped into a nightmare of memories and the horror of what was held back within the sky. _He had been so_ tired _—_

They are _waiting_ , they are _waiting with their claws bared_ , false-gods behind the Veil _clamoring_ for entrance into a waking world of _Tranquil shadows_. They are _waiting_ , Solas chokes, blinking in the dim light of the rotunda. His heart is pounding, because he does not _know_ if he can _stop their wrath_ when he releases them, _fucking foolish wolf_ —

Arms.

Around him.

(Lavellan.)

She has risen from his desk, papers pushed away, dim light of the only candle in the room glimmering behind her—she catches his next sob, arms slowly moving to wrap around his back and across his shoulders. Slowly, so lightly that he is not startled, and Solas is drawn _achingly_ from his nightmare, a gentle pull towards the waking world.

Lavellan is—slipping herself through his cracks, kneeling before his seat to wrap herself around him, his spine bending and breaking as he curves, _shuddering_ , into her grip.

She is solid warmth and murmured comforts, she is—Lavellan is gently stroking his back and drawing him to her neck, and he nuzzles her, there, gasping against her throat and breathing in sandalwood and the scent of metal that never leaves her.

She curls, closer, and Solas is gripping her sides, her back, digging fingers and thudding heart and anxious tremors. Sweat drips down his neck but he feels so _cold_ , panic choking him from the inside out and freezing him as he _shudders_ against her.

Lavellan murmurs.

Soft and gentle against his ear, endearments that slowly break through his daze and settle on his skin.

“Da’lath’in,” her voice washes, quiet and kind and _worried_ , over him. “My heart. Please breathe—”

(She is trembling, lightly, and Solas will not remember this until years later. Will not realize how much his pain makes her ache until years later.)

(He is always late—)

His trembling stops over time, a tide of shaking that ends with his arms wrapped around her and his face still tucked into her neck. Her fingers do not still in their stroking along his back, save for one hand that slips up the back of his neck to wait there. She rubs circles into the base of his skull; scrapes gently to remind him of the waking world.

He breathes. It takes awhile, but eventually—

He breathes.

~•~

He wakes _up_ crying the next time, and he can taste Felassan’s blood on his teeth and feel Felassan’s throat breaking in his hands. Face open and accepting, _falon_ on his old friend’s lips and _falon?_ in his old friend’s eyes.

_They are stronger than you think—_

_No_ , snarls the wolf, jaws snapping, wide, around the elf’s neck. _No, no, no,_ no— _you are misguided._ And betrayal seeps into his skin, weighs down his fur and stains his vision. _No_ , Fen’harel screams, to the empty Fade.

Mouth full of his slow arrow, bent and broken within his teeth. The eluvians _lost_ , his plan halted _again_ —

 _Endure_ , his mind screams at him, and Solas bites back a wail. _Endure, foolish wolf, and you will save this village soon_. So he tastes _real blood_ in his mouth—he has bitten his tongue while waking—and fists his fingers in the fabric of a linen blanket, digging into the cloth and turning to bury his face in his bedding.

Hot tears catch harder in his throat; it aches when he swallows them down, silent gasps caught by the fabric he lies on. The air refuses to be caught in his lungs.

Fingers unknot from his blanket, and he digs them into his palms. He does not stop gripping until he feels hot blood beneath them.

When he opens his eyes, Emprise du Lion is cold and his tent is empty.

~•~

The third time—he can’t break free of his dream. This time, it is as bad as it has ever been.

He is alone and dying, surrounded by an empty field and rustling leaves. Blood pools between his fingers as he scrapes his skin on the rocky ground—his magic is _gone_ , and a figure walks by with empty eyes and an empty child next to them.

 _Please_ , he whispers, but they pass him and do not turn, minds cut off from the living world and Tranquil in their existence. He drops his hand on the ground and red smears across his tunic, eyes wide and he _can’t breathe_ , _where is everyone where are they where am I where are they why_?

He tries to inhale; gasps halfway, chokes.

_Why am I alone—_

His mind

is screaming.

And how can he breathe in a world as fragmented and disjointed, faded and blurred, as this? The darkness within him bleeds out with the red, and then he is _covered_ in it, surrounded by blackness and the empty, empty void, _nothing_ around him and _no one_ with him, until the the shadows take over his entire vision.

He opens his eyes to sound of someone whimpering, and then he realizes that it is _him_.

The noise that leaves his throat is hollow and _breaking_ , and he brings his hands up to curl fingers around his eyes, digging deep into his skin until indents are left behind. His legs have tangled themselves up in his thin blanket, tent floor set against the damp ground of the Storm Coast, and he cannot stop himself from curling into himself.

He _shakes_ with the pressure of holding his sobs in, cold air stinging his ears and cold sweat pooling in his throat—he shudders, harshly, heart beating so fast that _panic_ overtakes him and suddenly the weight of the blanket is too much.

He scrambles against his bedroll to get it _off_ him, knees knocking against the harsh ground and fingers finding purchase in the thin cloth of the tent floor—where _is everyone?_ runs through his head, and his mind tells him to keep his foolish mouth shut while his heart feels like it has been torn open and _salted_.

And then he can’t stop himself.

The cold air hits his body inside the tent and he brings his hand up, back bent as he rises to his knees with sweat sticking his sweater to him, and he _bites down_ on his forearm, jaw aching from the strain and _bites,_ harder, _harsher_ , until blunt teeth rip through pale skin and hot blood fills his mouth, metallic scent in his nose and on his tongue and so strong that the whimpers stop, and _deeper_ says a wild voice in his head, _make it stop please just_ stop—

 _Bite harder, wolf, and hold on longer_ —

“ _Solas_ ,” someone breathes behind him, horror in their— _Lavellan’s_ —voice and terror in her words. “Solas, what are you—”

Her fingers slip around his arm and between his teeth, stroke his mouth till he releases his skin and sits back on his legs—he can’t stop crying, the whimpers becoming unrestrained _sobs_ now that he cannot fill his mouth with anything else; he is drowning in sorrow, and his lungs refuse to _breathe_.

He thinks he is going to die like this. Tears on his face and wide eyes, veins filled with fear. He thinks he is going to die like this—

And Lavellan makes a strange noise, and he only registers wide brown eyes and her pained, worried features moving to the front of him before she slips her arms around him, _tightly_ , sliding underneath his and going to his back instantly; she hugs him _fiercely,_ and lets him find the curve of her throat with his nose.

There is blood on his teeth and on her throat but she does not seem to care, gauntlet-bare hands running up his spine to his shoulder blades, where she pulls him so _fiercely_ against her that for a moment _all he knows_ is her warmth and her scent. All he knows is the feeling of _her_ : soft skin and steady arms and scarred hands and quiet voice in his ear.

“You’re _here_ ,” she says into his ear, hot breath washing across the tip of his ear and making him shudder _harder._ “I have you, _vhenan_ , you’re here—I promise, Solas, _I have you_ , breathe—”

The endearment unravels him.

Against her neck, he makes a noise not unlike a keen. His arms are at his side, one bleeding and both helpless, until a moment beats by and he cannot keep himself from _reaching_ for her.

He tugs her against his body and then pushes her back, following, until she’s pressed against the bedroll and he’s lying against her. He tangles their legs together, so desperate for something, someone, _real_ that he can’t help but try to feel as much of her as possible—his back _curves_ as he curls himself around her, and he _breathes_ against the curve of her throat.

When his tears hit her skin, and his sobs dissolve into something silent, she knots her fingers in the back of his sweater and turns her head to kiss the skin behind his ear—a steady press, as if she is reassuring him.

And she is. She withdraws her arms—the absence has him pressing closer to her, burying his face more insistently in her skin—and then slides them up over his trembling arms and shoulders to brush the underside of his jaw. Firm but gentle, she slides her fingers higher and draws back entirely so that she can cradle his face in her hands.

Thumbs brush the wetness on his cheeks before moving again to fit his ears into her hands—their ears are so very sensitive at certain times, and Lavellan uses her fingers to brush the soft skin and rub their delicate tips. The sensation is not unlike a wash of cold water, though it is much more gentle—he can feel his panic receding, slowly, as she holds him in place with a dark gaze that pins him as much as her hands do.

He cannot look away from her.

Sylaise’s vallaslin curling across her face in gentle swirls, small scars dotting blush-red lips and bronzed skin. Steady dark-brown eyes and heavy lashes, face framed by short black hair that drapes over her forehead in soft waves and curls. She locks his gaze with hers, side of her face against the bedding, until he feels his tears begin to dry and his heart begin to slow.

Her fingers brush against the tip of his ears again, fingernails carefully kept from scraping them, and this time the feeling has him _shuddering_.

When she finally draws close to him, she touches his forehead with her own and wipes his tears once more.

“I’ll be right back,” she murmurs, and by the time he registers her words she is already drawing farther away from his grip. The loss of her touch on his ears has him reaching for her, embarrassment beat down by how _alarmed_ he is at the thought that she is _leaving_ , leaving him alone in the cold air—

Lavellan turns back at his touch, half risen on her knees to see him sit up and hold her sleeve, an unspoken plea. Her eyes do not falter as she looks back at him, steady and piercing when she kneels again to cradle his face with her freed hand and kiss his temple firmly.

Her lips are warm against his skin, and something in the back of his mind tells him that this is as much a reason for him to grieve as anything else.

It is the same voice that calls him _harellan_.

When he still doesn’t let go of her arm, she looks at him for a moment, as if caught between leaving and—

 _Stay_ , the word lies on the tip of his tongue. _Stay._

Something in her expression hardens, then, and Lavellan tugs her arm out of his grip to touch his own softly.

“You’re still bleeding, Solas,” she tells him gently, and as if on cue, a sharp bite of pain comes from his forgotten, torn wrist. He looks down at the bloody bite marks with strange detachment, indents from his canines welling with still-dripping red. The marks are jagged but not deep—merely ugly, and a mess of ripped skin.

Lavellan lets go of the uninjured part of his arm to cup his jaw again, and this time kisses his temple so that her lips brush the corner of his eye. His lashes flutter, and she moves both hands up to smooth over his ears a final time. _I’ll be back._

He lets her leave this time.

She returns in minutes that drag across his skin. He’s still sitting with his legs out in front of him, bloody arm in his lap as he watches the entrance of the tent with an anxious twist in his stomach. The pale light and lack of noise tells him that it is still dawn, and that their companions have not yet woken.

Later, he will be unbelievably relieved. Lavellan, insistent on always taking the final watch, is the only one awake at these times.

She settles at his side and cleans his arm quietly, wet cloth gentle on his skin and fingers brushing soothingly over his elbow after she draws his sleeve back. It hurts when she wraps it, plastered over with salve, but at this point he doesn’t care—

He still remembers the darkness. To be with her, rather than alone, he will endure anything.

When she finishes, the silence between them draws out for so long that his heartbeat slows completely. And then he cannot stop himself from feeling— _embarrassed_. _Foolish_ , inconsiderate, _weak_ , _ashamed_. His Pride is injured.

“Inquisitor—” he starts to say, and feels shame bloom across his cheeks when his voice breaks. He tries again. “Inquisitor, I apologize—”

Lavellan makes a strange noise, between a choke and disbelieving snort, before leaning forward and then dropping her face onto his neck.

He stills.

“Inquisitor?” he murmurs, anxiety twisting in his chest. Her nose is cold against his skin, and he is suddenly aware that he is soaked in his own sweat and that his sweater is stained with blood. But Lavellan does not allow him to draw back, hands going to his bandaged arm and fingers curling around the undamaged skin of his elbow when he starts to move.

For a moment she does not answer, and he waits with a strange stillness in the air around them. A tremor runs through him.

Lavellan looks up, and this time her eyes are _frustrated_.

She lets go of his arm to pick up the discarded blanket, wrapping it around him and drawing it tight across his figure. When she is done draping it across him, she hesitates, then entwines one hand’s fingers with his. The gesture is slow—as if he could ever pull away from her.

Another stretch of silence fills the air between them, Lavellan’s gaze running over him with so much care that he feels something heavy in his chest.

“ _Da’lath’in_ ,” she says at last, accusingly, and the term has him flushing harder in embarrassment. “ _Solas._  Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I _can’t_ ,” he tells her, raw pain in his voice and the taste of ash in his mouth. He _can’t_. Denial is bitter and unflinching, and his jaw sets when he prepares to say it again.

Lavellan exhales quietly, a sigh that tell him how much this worries her. And then she surprises him yet again.

“Okay,” she murmurs. Her gaze is still steady—she accepts his answer willingly, despite her obvious frustration. Her fingers keep stroking his, so soothing that he almost wavers.

“I’m worried, Solas,” she tells him quietly, and some day in the future he will think back and remember the way her voice trembles “I can’t let you sleep alone if this keeps—if this keeps happening. I know you wanted space but—if you aren’t comfortable with me staying here, tell me who you _are_ fine with. I don’t care if this is only the second time this has happened to you, but I don’t want you _hurting_ yourself.”

“Third time,” he says softly, and realization has her fingers stilling in his grip.

“ _My heart,_ ” she says, and her voice breaks, so much grief washing over her face that his breath catches. When she leans forward and curls her arms around him, head settling on his shoulder, he is caught off guard.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and he wonders at the sorrow in her voice. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I _swear_ , Solas, I’ll be here _whenever_ you need me. I told you before. You aren’t alone.”

“I—” his voice fails him for a moment, and he returns her embrace slowly before he can speak again. “I don’t know if that’s necessary—”

“ _Of course_ it is,” she says, quiet against his skin. “This doesn't have to happen again. Just—tell me who you’d be comfortable with.”

_You._

A pause, and he hesitates. But Lavellan is stiff in his arms, and as unyielding as she was in Halamshiral when she brought down the three most powerful political leaders in Orlais.

“ _You_ ,” he admits, turn his head so that the words are whispered against her ear. Although he wonders, in the back of his mind, why she would ever assume otherwise.

“Okay,” she murmurs into the skin of his throat, pressing a not-kiss to the warm skin. “Then—okay.”

They sit together, a well of secrets between them. Lavellan holds him tightly, and he feels how fast her pulse beats in her throat against him. He kisses her head once, nose buried in the soft waves of her tousled hair, in gratitude. The affection for her rises in his chest, so fierce it _startles_ him, mixing with the remnants of his terror.

Lavellan does not seem inclined to let go of him for a long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember.... kudos and comments make me live.... suggestions make me live...... And I'll be upfront: I get nervous about answering comments because I'm scared of looking like a loser but please don't take it as me ignoring them. I'll literally memorize them...
> 
>  **Glossary:**  
>  _Da'lath'in_ : little heart. An endearment used to describe someone who is emotional, carries their heart on their sleeve, is very empathetic, or very sympathetic to the plights of others. Typically used to describe a young person, but can be used for people of all ages who meet the description. (fenxshiral)  
> vhenan: "my heart" not gonna go into much detail w this


End file.
